The Art of Perspective
by GalleryofGhosts
Summary: He's an old-fashioned Amish ex-cop in drag! She's a paranoid former First Lady with someone else's memories! They fight crime! Intrigued? Don't read this story, then, because its completely irrelevant! R
1. Capitulo UNO

CHAPTER ONE: A BRIEF HISTORY OF PAGEANTS.

Aside from taxes and Jerry Springer on weekdays, beauty pageants are the most ancient institution in the Universe. When the first cluster of ambitious subatomic particles happened across an electromagnetic charge and a cell was zapped into existence, its first thought was that a couple hundred blank, hopelessly convoluted financial forms would, in conjunction with a ballpoint pen, really help pass the time. Its second thought was that watching slack jawed yokels pummel the remaining teeth out of each other's mouths might be exquisitely amusing. Thirdly, it realized that its healthy amount of self-esteem must be remedied as soon as possible, and proceeded to organize the first pageant (thought it could not have been called a success since said cell was the only functioning organism in existence at the time).

Beauty pageants, unlike the Amish and the taste of cod liver oil, have the unique ability to maintain their fundamental policies and beliefs while adapting to the times. With each new chapter of society there arises an innovative pageant to cheapen it; for example, in the wake of Elbirret's Dreadfully Unfortunate Porcine Uprising, when a horde of angry boars overran the Emporer's palace and imposed martial law, a pageant was founded for no particular reason, except perhaps to pacify the humanoid population by giving them something annual to look forward to. Mind you, Elbirret was a planet comprised mostly of dense forests of poison ivy and copy after miserable copy of Paula Nancy Millstone Jennings' masterwork _"Adventures_ _In the Company of a Relatively Fluffy Mammal."_ (These books were a displaced Earth export- when the unsold remnants of the truly loathsome series of pages were shot into space, they ended up on Elbirret. To this day, the books are thought to be an angry deity's answer to someone finding a cure for welts caused by the native vegetation. The remedy has since been banned, except on Earth, ironically, where the salve is whimsically titled "cortisone." It should be noted that Earth has since been obliterated.) As a result of its foliage, Elbirret's inhabitants were doomed to be warlike, and were, due to their planet-wide skin condition and lack of tolerable reading material, very hard to distract.

The Lil' Miss Rash-Free competition was enacted soon after the revolution, claiming to promote the importance of thorough female grooming and snout care. Suspiciously, one of the categories in which contestants were judged was Trotter Origami. The Paper Maiche portion of the pageant, too, seemed to help reduce the incidence of Ms. Jennings' book. This is only one example, however, of a beauty pageant that united two squabbling species.

_Note: Elbirret, as a result of nuclear war between two squabbling species, no longer exists._

The subject of male-oriented pageants, up until ten million years ago when God smiled benignly down at Adam and saw that he was good(-looking), was somewhat taboo. A self-respecting male, it turns out, cannot publicly cavort in anything smaller than a tasteful tank top and athletic shorts while retaining his heterosexuality in any part of the Galaxy. So severe was the stigma of the speedo that one day a small, valiant group of sexually adventuresome pilgrimesses stormed the headquarters of the Imperial Galactic Government and demanded that thongs and many other variations on skin-tight attire be formally declared acceptable for their husbands and objects of admiration to prance about in.

Needless to say, they were shot on sight.

Despite its tragic end, the incident eventually had its desired effect, and a men's pageant was instated. A drawback in acquiring a diverse audience, though, was evident even in the competition's title: Mr. Vogon Stud. Hideous creatures, it seems, are exceptionally secure in their sexual orientations. When the gestation of young takes place in the armpit (favoring the left), one might not feel compelled to engage in sexual activity as recreational; therefore, preference barely even comes into play when the winner of your species' staring contest is the one that can look his rival for the longest period without wincing. Traditionally, Vogons mate only out of duty, since their anatomy is not specialized for pleasure of any kind. Vogon men, for example, have spiked penises; their semen is a highly corrosive substance much like acid, but somewhat smellier, and women (touché) have nothing more than a second, sharp-toothed, particularly ravenous mouth leading to a uterus. Also, sex requires that two preferably naked beings come in close proximity to each other, and the only thing uglier than a Vogon in full battle armor is a Vogon in his or her birthday suit. Why, then, considering their innate hideousness, would the Vogons agree to hold the first male pageant? Quite simply, they were paid off by the government, who wished to quell the intergalactic uprising of dry-mouthed, horny females tired of watching their husbands, fathers, brothers, and/or lesbian cousins salivating periodically over pageant queens. Drool-envy was soon after inducted into the _Encyclopedia Galactica_ as a valid mental disorder.

The Mr. Vogon Stud pageant (the first and only winner of which was, not surprisingly, the Prostetnic at the time: a truly grotesque specimen of organic life called Grumb, and very fittingly so) failed to reach its target audience. Government experts were baffled, and it should be confirmed herewith that government experts are all overpaid dunces. This first endeavor in male pageants passed into obscurity and was beaten to death with a sawed-off pool cue upon arrival.

A few more centuries and endless Senso-Telly marathons of _Queer, Dammit, for the Straight Planet_ brought about the grudging popularity of male-oriented pageants. Faster than you could be coerced to grit out the word "fabulous," scores of well-groomed, overtly pleasant males were flocking to these competitions in order for their beauty to be recognized. Problem was, in such a large, diverse Universe as ours, it was near impossible for judges of a certain species to consider contestants of different species attractive in any way. While the equine, water-dwelling inhabitants of the planet Pongidae regard translucent yellow skin and a certain rare, jiggling consistency as the height of loveliness, any humanoid in their right mind would not. "This," corroborated the government experts, "is something of a problem. Funny it didn't present itself during any of the female pageants."

_Note: Massive bosoms are the universal good._

"Now what," the government experts pondered impotently, "is so mind-bogglingly useful that it could resolve our dilemma without the use of technology, tax dollars, or any effort on our part?"

"The Babel Fish, you cretin!" intervened their wives, "Now come to dinner!"

Aquatic critter, ubiquitous translator, delicious with tartar sauce; whatever title you assign it, the Babel fish is a wonder of evolution. Something so shamelessly functional, unhampered by drawbacks or side-effects (unless the concept of having a banana-hued leech thrashing about in your cerebrum is unappealing to you), surely must prove that divine design comes into play at one point in the evolutionary process. But such an argument would matter, and this story is strictly asinine. To delve back into the more inane sub-plot: after minimal research but lots of dissection and pensive fondling of internal organs, government experts realized that, if stretched to transparency, the buoyancy bladder of the Babel fish allows whoever is looking through it to perceive alien beauty as equivalent to their native perception of beauty. Example; while peering through Babel Bladder Lenses, an equine, water-dwelling inhabitant of the planet Pongidae might see Brad Pitt, the epitome of beauty in male humans, as a jiggling yellow man-horse, the epitome of Pongidaeien beauty. While looking at, say, Donald Trump through the BBLs, it might see a relatively firm creature who is pastel at best.

The government experts responsible for the discovery (i.e.: blessed coincidence) embarked on a publicity tour, though the details of the experiment became increasingly muddled from so many contributors trying to downplay how the solution had beckoned like a transsexual streetwalker. Despite the connotations when handsomely paid bystanders yelled "Look! A diversion!", allowing the government experts in question to bolt from press conferences, the BBLs were well-accepted and put to good use when the First Annual Mr. Existence pageant took place at the height of sweeps week later that year.

The Mr. Existence Spectacle of Non-Effeminate Beauty, since it originated on a fateful Thursday night of excellent senso-television, has dwarfed all other competitions in its genre. In case you were wondering, its creator, Rabbug Teks (as well as being the only gay CEO of the widely complained-about Sirius Corporation) was long-winded and thesaurus-happy. A month or so before the pageant itself, advertisements began to surface in all major magazines and (conveniently) the package lining of all Sirius Corporation products. Free BBLs were included with every promotional ploy imaginable: even the mini-laser toy traditionally included in boxes of "Uncle Sirius' Own Saccharin-Imbued ADHD Fizzles" was replaced by a pair of glasses, causing countless 5-9 year olds to sob until they were distracted by something shiny.

Mr. Existence's premiere was a grand one, boasting contestants from 200 planets and a panel of of judges (hailing from the sub-par reality programs of countless worlds) stretching as far as the eye could see. The ring-shaped catwalk, in order to pass by every single judge, had a circumference of thirty-five miles. The auditorium capacity was 3.7 million. By the nights climax, attendees were undecided on whether the speck from Betelguese or the speck from Namregia II deserved the sparkly dot and pearlescent sliver that they assumed were the crown and sash. The T.V. viewers received a fuller experience, and, in the end, actually got a good look at the winner: Cyanocitta Stellari (who, purely out of coincidence, shares a scientific name with the Western Blue Jay) of Namregia II. Without the aid of BBLs, Stellari was more likely to merit a horrified double-take than a catcall. His jewel-purple, compound eyes were two freakish diatoms sunk deep in a bald, round, paper-white skull. He had no ears, but whatever oddball deity created him didn't skimp on his nose, which protruded, dangerously triangular, at least 3 inches off of his face. From the front, he resembled a malevolent washing machine dial. In humanoid terms of beauty, however, he was the equivalent to an achingly handsome redhead with honey-colored eyes and a well-placed mole just astride his upper lip. Soon after he was crowned, female fans awarded him the admiring title "Red Delicious," much to the bemusement of his people, who, long before his reign began, had called him "Deep Purple." The equine, water-dwelling inhabitants of the planet Pongidae, where he was known as "The Yellow Jello," were similarly baffled. Regardless of the discrepancy in nicknames, sapiens, quadrupeds, and cephalic fungi across the Universe agreed that Stellari was fully deserving of his title.

The Betelgeusian runner-up joined Mr. Vogon Stud in anonymity, where they played a game of poker. Who won? That, my friends, is another story.


	2. Capitulo DOS

AN: You'll have to excuse my occasional allusions to earth-bound items and institutions; I couldn't bring myself to edit them out.

CHAPTER TWO: REALLY, REALLY, RIDICULOUSLY _GOOD_-LOOKING

Face it; the Universe is big. Although, relative to its unparalleled bigness, it is sparsely populated, there are a lot of creatures being born, dying, and engaging in endless variations on good-old hanky-panky (if you get the drift of my jabbing elbow) every day. The title of "handsomest alive," you might think, would fluxuate constantly. Until, that is, a inexcusably gorgeous couple from the Tsorfian Glamour Heaths created offspring, therefore scorning the law of averages and making instant pedophiles of three nurses, five maternity aides and a Catholic nanny. Despite ensuing cries of "stop!", the boy only grew in beauty every day. When he turned thirteen, though, statistics had their justice and the dark caul of puberty commenced its slow suffocation. Luckily, his younger brother wasn't bad-looking, and the perfume-laden torch of loveliness was passed.

Hebastion Hyyrk (for that was the younger brother's unlucky birth name) was a first-year pupil in Tsorf's Civic Lyceum when it first came to light that he was different. Up until the point of his induction into the prestigious school, he had been largely isolated from the outside world. Though his human contact was minimal, at one point during his early childhood he ventured onto the porch to fetch the newspaper and found himself shanghaied by a giggling trio of pre-adolescent girls. He was gagged, hog-tied, stripped naked(not necessarily in that order), and promptly spirited away to an increasingly pink bedroom. The three sisters were crowded around an anatomy textbook in the hallway, wondering what they'd gotten themselves into, when his parents activated the residence's intercom and one tactless young lady dismissed them at the door-side monitor, explaining,"You'll have to visit later. We're losing our virginities."From the incident on, mom and dad recommended that Hebastion avoid the public eye, and considering that a lust-crazed clique of sex-offenders in-training were the only people outside his family he had ever met, he willingly obliged.

Though secluded from a majority of the population, Hebastion was home-schooled and, eventually, proved to be intelligent for his hair color (blonde). This was largely due to the complete abscence of mirrors in his residence; early on, his reflection was deemed too diverting for him to be exposed to it even once. His tutor, a Mrs. Tittlequog, was not so exceptional as to accomodate his substantial intellect, but was hired for the sole reason that a losing battle with a rare ocular disease caused her to see everyone, young or old, humanoid or reptilian, as a large leek. One leek did not appear tastier than the next: she was surrounded at all times by identical leeks. Because of this, she relied heavily on voice recognition and developed an aversion to Mediterranean cuisine.

Routine dominated the first fourteen years of Hebastion's life. He didn't mind, because he was largely unaware of what he was missing. If asked then what his goals in life were, he might have scratched his golden head and replied sincerely "I'm planning to eat a scone tomorrow." Mr. and Mrs. Hyyrk worried about their bright, clever child and the effect his quarantine had on his development. After reading his report on hobbies (which had been graded and routinely praised by Mrs. Tittlequog) they decided their fears were justified.

My Interests

By: Hebastion Hyyrk

My interests are eclectic. In the mornings, I like to comb the fringe of the wall hanging in my bedroom. I do not know how it gets so tangled while I am asleep, but I do not mind because it is so much fun to comb.

Later in the day, I enjoy reading the newspaper and underlining every word that begins with "n," because it is my favorite letter of all. "G" is my second favorite letter, and if I have time, I underline those words as well. Sometimes, there is an "n" word right beside a "g" word!

At night, I hold an eraser shaving circus. The ringleader is always the biggest shaving. I blow on the rest of the performers to make them do flips and juggling routines. Last night's circus was the most successful yet (still no attendees, but Pinky the Clown nailed his vaudeville act).

I also enjoy counting. There are two-hundred and three tiles in my ceiling. Most of them are named Neil; with a few Geoffs.

The End.

They practically sprinted to the Civic Lyceum's enrollment office.

The prestigious academy, upon reviewing the boy's grades and aptitude test results, welcomed him. (The essay was not reviewed.) A fervent request that he be given private tutoring due to "physical irregularity," however, was vetoed. "Our thtudents," Headmaster Setsi assured Hebastion's parents, idly flicking at the Sensodex on his chrome excecutive desk, "are more than able to adjutht to a clathmate's more unique athpectth. Why, jutht the other day, a boy with two headth wath named Clath Reprethentative of the fifth year!" (And yes. It was him.)

"You don't understand!" Mrs. Hyyrk exclaimed, shifting prettily in her seat. "We worry about his safety! The young girls in particular can't...can't..."

"...focus in his proximity?" Mr. Hyyrk provided, handsome even in understatement.

The Sensodex halted with an ominous bleep, happening to fall open at the name "Lig Lury Jr."

"Our pupilth are the cream of the proverbial crop, Mithter and Mithus Hyyrk, not thothiety's dregth," Setsi said darkly, his bristly eyebrows crouching low over his peepers like a pair of desperate caterpillars avoiding a spritz of pesticide. "I darethay they can handle a harelip."

He thpoke...er...spoke the truth; the Lyceum's pupils could, indeed, handle a harelip. In fact, had he visited a looking glass in the last year or two, he might have noticed one gracing the space between his own nostrils and teeth. Then again, since, as of the previous weekend, he had reached a brand-new stage of denial never witnessed before in simian lifeforms (bigotry), he might not have. Setsi (or, Thetthi, as he might introduce himself) could not have loathed people with harelips more. He constantly cracked jokes about lisps and the growing need for moustaches to his coworkers, who just cleared their throats and found something interesting beneath their respective fingernails to toy with until he left, wherein they made sure that"It is that creepy? It's not just me?"

Though his shortcomings were many, his longcomings a grammatical impossibility, Setsti showed some compassion in allowing Hebastion to wear a hood, a pullover mask, a scarf, sunglasses, gloves, knees socks, and an opaque hairnet to class, just so none of his "irregularites" were in plain view. Hebastion was already so overstimulated by the concept that children besides his surly, acne-ridden older brother existed that he barely even heard the terms of his enrollment before dipping into unconsciousness.

Once he came to, Hebastion turned the page of a new chapter in his life as a rhapsodic, faceless hulk of fabric and raw ambition bravely embarking on a perilous journey into a unfamiliar, relatively crowded world; and when he waddled his merry way into his first classroom on his first day at his first school, every bully within a ten-mile radius experienced premature ejaculation.

Puck Ibemic, a professional bully and Extremely Large Man, describes his ideal bitch thusly:

_"My ideal bitch would be an overweight male. I would have either have five years or two feet on him, though a combination of both is preferred. He would be good-natured and vulnerable, with no foundation of confidence or self-esteem to stand on. His innocence would be such as to cause him to think my bullying was actually initiation, or a proof of friendship. His walking method would be one of the following: stroll, skip, mope, or waddle. All in all, he would stick out like Hebastion Hyyrk in a crowd of Vogons. Except in a bad way. What are we talking about again?"_

_Mr. Ibemic was then reminded that the child he had bullied so long ago actually_ was_ Hebastion Hyyrk. The interview was terminated when his answers devolved into demands for an autographed 8x10 glossy. _

Hebastion's first months at school were, to say the least, rocky. He excelled in class discussions, consistently recieved perfect marks on exams, and developed an easy rappor with his instructors, therefore slaughtering any social life he might have potentially had. Each of his positive achievements was promptly counteracted with a wedgie, a noogie, a swirlie, a Wet Willie, or one of many other juvenile torture methods ending in "ie." The handsomest boy in the Universe became disheartened; his cheerful waddle dissolved into a steady, depressing mope. If you'll refer to Mr. Ibemic's criteria, however, you'll find that a mope maintains eligibility for daily persecution. His situation did little to improve.

"Why," he agonized one morning in a digi-letter to his parents, "can't I just take off some of these extra clothes? They're hot, they're uncomfortable, and none of the other children wear this many. I don't understa-"

Very suddenly, a diskette shot through the open window of his dorm , ricocheted off of his thickly cushioned forehead, and settled onto his desk. More than a little bewildered, he chanced a tap of the play button.

"NEVER TAKE OFF THOSE CLOTHES," The audio file's monotone commanded as emphatically as monotone allows, "EVER. NOT EVEN IN THE WC. WE'LL HAVE A DISTILLER INSTALLED IN YOUR TROUSERS. THIS IS FROM THE FUTURE. -See you next weekend, no, really, Mom and Dad."(Not keen on towing around a self-contained sewage system, Hebastion soon after spoke with his counselor about joining the _Youth's Campaign for Real Time._)

And so, tragically, the effervescent Padded Wonder lost his bounce completely(at least in the metaphorical sense. His daily tormentors, upon flinging him against a brick wall, found him to be as elastic as ever), and took to slogging about the halls with all the half-hearted aggression of some large, recently tranquilized forest mammal. The bullies should have been satisfied at having fulfilled their respective raison detres.

Unfortunately, they were overachievers at heart.

Niller and Moxe, his principle abusers and parttime bodyguards to a certain charming, charismatic, two-headed class president, allowed the three functioning brain cells they had between them to collaborate in devising a plan for Hebastion's grand unmasking. Even today, their scheme is a celebrated gem of tact and strategy: not before charging admission, they waited until he was asleep, then ripped it the bloody hell off of him.

A cooperative gasp whooped throughout the boy's dorm. Teenage males have morbid imaginations; every one of them had been expecting some varying degree of "revolting", with or without talons, depending on how much Senso-Telly they watched. Several collapsed from the heady combination of anticipation, shock, and instant infatuation. Niller, who had performed the actual unmasking and recieved two eyefulls of distilled loveliness at point-blank range, was the only one to escape instantaneous lust. (He was a bit preoccupied with the fact that his eyes had caught flame in their sockets.)

The rest of the boys had _almost_ located an orifice of appropriate diameter for their next course of action when Headmaster Setsi, hearing Hebastion's wails from his office, intervened.

Headmaster Setsi had _almost_ located the same orifice that the students had been investigating upon his arrival when Hebastion's parents, tipped off by a suicide note from the Hebastion of the future(who had lost his innocence that night and, as a result, eventually replaced Eccentrica Gallumbits as the most promiscuous being in the Galaxy) burst into the dorm and delivered their divinely beautiful offspring from further violation.

After what was thereafter referred to as "the incident", school, for Hebastion (who would hover for the rest of his life in a healthy state of denial about the whole thing), was no longer an option. However, since Concerned Parents cannot stand for their respective children to be idle for any longer than exactly one summer at a time, the boy's mother and father began their search for alternate educational outlets. Finding none immedietly, they decided to break for some drinks.

"Our poor boy," Mrs. Hyyrk said wistfully, sipping at her glass and watching vastly less attractive pedestrians pass by the outdoor cafe. Each time one failed to double-take, she died a little inside.

Mr. Hyyrk patted her hand fondly. "I'm sure we'll find...something..."

"What is it!" Mrs. Hyyrk demanded, noticing that her husband's eyes had glazed with an Epiphany.

"Look!" he cried, pointing his index finger (the perfect proportions of which were truly remarkable) somewhere past her head (which was, in case you hadn't guessed, virtually flawless from chin to brow).

She turned to see a colorful poster(1) on the wall of the building opposite him. "Oh, my!"(2) she exclaimed.

"It's perfect!"

"Absolutely!"

"Then it's settled!"(3)

"Yes; we're definitely seeing that movie!"(4)

They saw it. Luckily, before the feature started, a commercial welcoming contestants for Rabbug Teks' upcoming Mr. Existence pageant was run. The Hyyrks, soon after finishing the film which, though well-executed plotwise, lacked vivid cinemetography and passion on part of the director, obtained an application.

Tense weeks passed until the committee's written reply arrived. The entire family (excluding the eldest sibling, who remained in his room and continued editing the third draft of his hit list), crowded around the letter. "What, are you NUTS?" it read, "Kid's fourteen! Call us in a couple of years!"

They did.

Yep, he won.

And here, our story begins.

I mean.

In the next chapter.

-------------------------------------

(1)The kind of poster you might see for say, a pageant.

(2)In a way you might exclaim "Oh my" in reference to a pageant.

(3)Settled like how one's mind might be made up about a pageant.

(4)Punk'd!

AN: Wow, that took a while. And rest assured that another update will take just as long! If not longer!


End file.
